Venetia (3 page)

“I have been neglecting my duties, and if I don’t take care shall be subjected to a dreadful scold,” she said, smiling, and holding out her hand to Oswald. “So I must send you both away. Don’t be vexed! you are such old friends that I don’t stand on ceremony with you.”

Not even Edward’s presence could deter Oswald from raising her hand to his lips, and pressing a fervent kiss upon it. She received this with unruffled equanimity, and upon recovering her hand held it out to Edward. But he only smiled, and said: “In a moment!” and held open the door for her. She went past him into the hall, and he followed her, firmly shutting his rival into the breakfast-parlour. “You should not encourage that stupid boy to dangle after you,” he remarked.

“Do I encourage him?” she said, looking surprised. “I thought I behaved to him as I do to Aubrey. That’s how I regard him—except,” she added thoughtfully, “that Aubrey doesn’t want for sense, and seems much older than poor Oswald.”

“My dear Venetia, I do not accuse you of
flirting
with him!” he replied, with an indulgent smile. “Nor am I jealous, if that’s what you are thinking!”

“Well, it isn’t,” she said. “You have no reason to be jealous and no right either, you know.”

“Certainly no
reason.
As for
right,
we are agreed, are we not? that it would be improper to say more on that head until Conway comes home. You may guess with what interest I perused that column in the newspaper!”

This was said with an arch look which provoked her to exclaim: “Edward! Pray don’t refine too much upon Conway’s homecoming! You’ve fallen into a way of speaking of it as if
that
would make me ready to fall into your arms, and I wish you will not!”

“I hope—indeed, I am quite sure—that I have never expressed myself in such terms,” he responded gravely.

“No, never!” she agreed, a mischievous smile hovering round her lips. “Edward, do—do ask yourself, before I become so bored with Conway that I shall be ready to snap at
any
offer, if you
really
wish to marry me! For I don’t think you do!”

He looked taken aback, even rather shocked, but after a moment he smiled, and said: “I know your love of funning! You are always diverting, and if your sportiveness leads you now and then to say some odd things I fancy I am too well-acquainted with you to believe you mean them.”

“Edward, pray—
pray
make at least a push to disabuse your mind of illusion!” begged Venetia earnestly. “You can’t know me in the least, if that’s what you think, and what a dreadful shock it will be to you when you discover that I
do
mean the odd things I say!”

He replied playfully, yet with no diminution of his confidence: “Perhaps I know you better than you know yourself! It is a trick you’ve caught from Aubrey.
You
do not in general go beyond the line of what is pleasing, but when you talk of Conway it is as if you did not hold him in affection.”

“No, I don’t,” she said frankly. “Venetia! Think what you are saying!”

“But it is perfectly true!” she insisted. “Oh, don’t look so shocked! I don’t dislike him—though I daresay I may, if I am obliged to be with him a great deal, for besides not caring a straw for anyone’s comfort but his own he is quite
dismally
commonplace!”

“You should not say so,” he replied repressively. “If you talk of your brother with so little moderation it is not to be wondered at that Aubrey shouldn’t scruple to speak of his homecoming as he did just now.”

“My dear Edward, a moment since you said that I had caught the trick from
him
!”
she rallied him. His countenance did not relax, and she added, in some amusement: “The truth is—if you would but realize it!—that we haven’t any tricks, we only say what we think. And I must own that it is astonishing how often we have the same thoughts, for we are not, I believe, much alike—certainly not in our tastes!” He was silent for a minute, and then said: “It is allowable for you to feel a little resentment, perhaps. I have felt it for you. Your situation here, since your father’s death, has been uncomfortable, and Conway has not scrupled to lay his burdens—indeed, his
duties
!
—
upon your shoulders. But with Aubrey it is otherwise. I was tempted to give him a sharp set-down when I heard him speak as he did of his brother. Whatever Conway’s faults may be he is very good-natured, and has always been kind to Aubrey.”

“Yes, but Aubrey doesn’t like people because they are kind,” she said.

“Now you are talking nonsensically!”

“Oh, no! When Aubrey likes people it isn’t for anything they do: it’s for what they have in their minds, I think.”

“It will be a very good thing for Aubrey when Conway does come home!” he interrupted. “If the only people he is foolish enough to think he can like are classical scholars, it’s high time—”

“What a stupid thing to say, when you must know that he likes me!”

He said stiffly: “I beg your pardon! No doubt I misunderstood you.”

“Indeed you did! You misunderstood what I said about Conway, too. I promise you I don’t feel the least
resentment,
and as for my situation—oh, how absurd you are! Of course it’s not uncomfortable!” She saw that he was looking offended, and exclaimed: “Now I have vexed you! Well, it’s too hot a day for quarrelling, so we won’t argue any more, if you please! In any event, I must go up to see what it is Nurse wants. Goodbye!—and thank you for being so kind as to bring us your newspaper!”

II

escaping from Nurse, who, besides worn sheets, displayed for her reprobation two of Aubrey’s shirts, with wrist-bands torn by careless mangling, Venetia fell into the clutches of the housekeeper. Mrs. Gurnard’s ostensible purpose was to remind her that now or never was the time for making bramble-jelly; her real object, arrived at only after much divagation, was to defend the new laundry-maid, her own niece, from Nurse’s accusations. Since these two elderly retainers had lived for some twenty-six years on terms of mutual jealousy, Venetia knew that the alleged shortcomings of the laundry-maid would inevitably lead to the recital of a number of other grievances against Nurse; after which Nurse, rendered suspicious by the length of her visit to the housekeeper’s room, would pounce on her to discover by rigorous questioning what malicious lies had been told her; so, with an adroitness born of long practice, she swiftly brought the conversation back to bramble-jelly, diverting Mrs. Gurnard’s mind by a promise to bring her a basketful of blackberries that very day, and slipping away to her bedchamber before that redoubtable dame could recollect any more of Nurse’s iniquities.

Shedding the French cambric dress she was wearing, Venetia pulled out an old dimity from her wardrobe. It was rather outmoded, and its original blue had faded to an indeterminate gray, but it was quite good enough for blackberrying, and not even Nurse would cry out censoriously if it became stained. A rather stouter pair of shoes and a sun-bonnet completed her toilet; and, armed with a large basket, she presently left the house, sped on her way by the intelligence, conveyed to her by Ribble, the butler, that Mr. Denny, having ridden away to Thirsk, where he had business to transact, rather thought he should call again at Undershaw on his homeward journey, in case Miss Lanyon might wish to charge him with a message for his mama.

Her sole companion on this expedition was an amiable if vacuous spaniel, bestowed on her by Aubrey, when he had discovered that besides being of an excitable disposition the pup was incurably gun-shy. As escort to a lady on her solitary walks he was by no means ideal, for, his unfortunate weakness notwithstanding, he was much addicted to sport, and after impeding her progress for a few hundred yards by gambolling round her, jumping up at her with hysterical yelps, and in general enacting the role of a dog rarely released from his chain, he would dash off, deaf to all remonstrance, and reappear only at intervals, with his tongue hanging out, and an air of having snatched a moment from urgent private affairs to assure himself that all was well with her.

Like most country-bred girls of her generation Venetia was an energetic walker; unlike most of her gently-born contemporaries she never scrupled to walk alone. It was a custom developed in her schoolroom days, when her object was to escape from her governess. An hour spent in strolling about the paths in the shrubbery was thought by Miss Poddemore to be sufficient exercise for any lady; and on the rare occasions when circumstance or persuasion induced her to set forth on the mile-long walk to the nearest village her decorous pace was as exasperating to her pupil as was her habit of beguiling the way with instructive discourse. Although not so highly accomplished as Miss Selina Trimmer, whom she had once met and ever afterwards venerated, she was well-educated. Unfortunately she possessed neither Miss Trimmer’s force of character nor her ability to inspire her pupils with affection. By the time she was seventeen Venetia was so heartily bored by her that she marked her emergence from the schoolroom into young ladyhood by informing her father that since she was now grown-up and perfectly able to manage the household they could dispense with Miss Poddemore’s services. From that date she had had no other chaperon than Nurse, but, as she pointed out to Lady Denny, since she neither went into society nor received guests at Undershaw it was hard to see what use a chaperon would be to her. Unable to say that there was any impropriety in a girl’s living unchaperoned in her father’s house, Lady Denny was obliged to abandon that argument, and to implore Venetia instead not to roam about the countryside unattended even by a maid. But Venetia had only laughed, and told her playfully that she was as bad as Miss Poddemore, who had never wearied of citing the example of Lady Harriet Cavendish (one of the pupils of the distinguished Miss Trimmer), who, when staying at Castle Douglas before her marriage, had never ventured beyond the gardens without her footman to attend her. Not being a duke’s daughter she did not feel it incumbent on her to take Lady Harriet for her model. “Besides, ma’am, that must have been ten years ago at least! And to drag one of the maids with me, when she would rather be doing anything else in the world, I daresay, would destroy all my pleasure. No, no, I didn’t rid myself of Miss Poddemore for
that
!
Why, what should happen to me here, where everyone knows who I am?”

Lady Denny, sighing, had had to be content with a promise that her independent young protegee would never go unescorted into York, or Thirsk. When Sir Francis had died she had renewed her entreaties, but without much hope of being attended to. It distressed her that Venetia should say she had outgrown her girlhood, but she could not deny it: Venetia was then twenty-two, perilously near to being on the shelf.

“Without ever having been
off
it, Sir John—though that’s not precisely what I mean, only that it is a wicked shame, so beautiful as she is, and so full of liveliness, besides having the best disposition imaginable! For my part, I hold that aunt of hers pretty cheap! She never made a real push to persuade Sir Francis to let Venetia go to London for a season when the poor child first came out, and if she has urged her to go now that he’s dead
I
have heard nothing of it! I believe her to be as selfish as her brother was, and if it were not for the expense, and our own girls to bring out—for even if anything
should
come of that attachment between Clara and Conway, which I don’t at all reckon on, I am determined that all five must and shall be presented at Court!— well, as I say, if it were not for that I should be strongly tempted to take her to London myself, and I shouldn’t wonder at it if she made a very respectable marriage, even though she isn’t in the first blush of youth! Only, you may depend upon it she would refuse to leave Aubrey,” she added in a despondent tone. “And soon it will be too late, if only she knew it!”

Venetia did know it, but since she could see no remedy while Conway remained obstinately abroad she continued to make the best of things. Lady Denny would have been astonished had she been allowed to know with what misgiving Venetia regarded the future. For any female in her position it was bleak indeed, and seemed to offer her no choice between marriage with Edward Yardley or the life of an ageing, and probably unwanted, spinster in her brother’s household. Mistress of an easy competence, it was convention and not dependence that would force her to remain at Undershaw. Single ladies did not live alone. Sisters, past the marriageable age, might do it; years and years ago the Lady Eleanor Butler and her dear friend, Miss Sarah Ponsonby, had done it, but in the teeth of parental opposition. They had fled to a cottage somewhere in Wales, renouncing the world just as if they had been nuns; and since they were still living there and had never, so far as anyone knew, stirred from their retreat, it was to be inferred that they were content. But Venetia was no eccentric, and even had she possessed a bosom friend she would not for an instant have entertained the thought of setting up house with her: marriage to Edward would be preferable to such a manage. And without indulging her fancy with girlish dreams of a noble and handsome suitor Venetia felt that marriage with another than Edward would be the most agreeable solution to her difficulties.

She had never been in love; and at five-and-twenty her expectations were not high. Her only acquaintance with romance lay between the covers of the books she had read; and if she had once awaited with confidence the arrival on her scene of a Sir Charles Grandison it had not been long before commonsense banished such optimism. In the days when she had now and then attended the Assemblies in York she had attracted a great deal of admiration, and more than one promising young gentleman, first struck by her beauty and then captivated by her frank manners and the charm of her smiling eyes, would have been very happy to have followed up a mere ballroom acquaintanceship. Unfortunately there was no possibility of following it up in the accepted mode, and although several susceptible gentlemen inveighed bitterly against the barbarity of a parent who would permit no visitor to enter his house none of them was so deeply heart-smitten after standing up with the lovely Miss Lanyon for one country-dance as to cast aside every canon of propriety (as well as to the horrid dread of making a great cake of himself) and ride out of York to Undershaw, either to hang about the gates of the Manor in the hope of achieving a clandestine meeting with Venetia, or to force his way into the house.